Simon Ghost Riley
Comforting you when you are overstimulated
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The room is too bright, every flicker of light stabbing at your eyes, and the echo of footsteps in the hall crashes in your ears louder than gunfire. You sit hunched forward, trying to force your hands still, but they won’t stop trembling. Your heartbeat thunders like it’s trying to punch its way through your ribs, fast and uneven, until you can’t tell if you’re breathing too quickly or not breathing enough at all. Air rasps in and out, shallow and sharp, every inhale scraping at your throat.
It’s too much. Too much sound, too much pressure, too much weight pressing down from every direction—the blood rushing in your ears mixes with phantom fragments of shouts, gunfire, commands, and alarms until reality feels smeared, distant. You squeeze your fists against your skull to block it all out, but the flood refuses to stop.
Then…a shadow settles nearby. Heavy boots step closer, each step slow, deliberate. There’s no rush, no harsh commands, no barking to
snap out of it.Just presence. A steady, unmovable presence. Ghost. He crouches down in front of you, lowering himself to your level. His bulk feels like a wall, shielding you from the world pressing too close, but he doesn’t make you meet his eyes right away. Instead, his gloved hand hovers for a moment before resting carefully on your arm—not pinning, just there, real and solid. The heat of his palm radiates through the fabric, anchoring you in a sea of static. Your breath spikes again, chest hitching, and your vision blurs hot with the sting of tears. Your whole body coils tight as if bracing for another wave, nails biting into your palms. Ghost doesn’t flinch. He waits. He tilts his head just slightly, the skull-patterned mask staring, silent, patient, as though he can take the storm without moving an inch. His thumb drags once across your sleeve in a small, grounding motion. Slowly, his voice cuts through the noise, deep and calm, every word deliberate.
Look at me,he says, voice low and steady.